The weeks of October went by slowly, and the work of the day had less to do with Jack the Ripper, and more of the usual fare. Molly thought often of the day Sherlock had accompanied her to Bart's pathology museum. It had been the start of a glorious friendship. After the pathology museum, the following day, Sherlock invited her to Baker Street to his little laboratory. She admired his experiments, provided the solution to two of them, and confessed her ignorance of the last one, to which he gladly explained. She wandered his library, saying nothing of the mess of the front parlor, but gave him a reprimanding look that he took to mean to not leave so much work for his housekeeper. During her shifts at Barts, he appeared now and again to see what she was working on and if he could take any cadavers off her hands. She's received a mysterious letter from a Mycroft Holmes, a rather official looking document, mind, instructing her to be as useful as she could to Sherlock. Showing him the document, Sherlock frowned, shrugged, and said that was just Mycroft seeing to it that she would not get into trouble for supplying body parts for Sherlock's experiments.
"Who is Mycroft?" she asked.
"My brother," he said, bending over the gut of a corpse to peer inside.
"Is he a politician?"
"He works in politics," Sherlock clarified.
"What's the difference?"
"Mycroft is…while an annoying pimple on the face of this earth, can hardly be compared to anything so small and dimwitted as a politician."
Molly did allow herself, sometimes, to hope that Sherlock Holmes wouldn't get bored with her. Not that she thought so little of herself, but she supposed someone like him would be attracted to someone exciting. Someone who knew about opera and art, as well as pathology. Talk was easier between them now, and varied from her work to her family and his, (he seemed loathe to discuss his brother). Usually he stopped by in time for her to take her late afternoon tea, and if he was not on a case, he would join her at the Indian tea room for a bite to eat.
Sometimes Mary Watson stopped by on Saturdays, Molly's day off. Molly was glad for her company; Mary was terribly fun, and terribly modern. One day she came calling riding a bicycle.
"Want to give it a go?" Mary asked, tugging her around to the garden where she'd wheeled it.
"Me? Oh goodness, no, I'd fall off it!"
"Oh it's easy!" Mary batted at the air. "Come on, sit astride, don't worry about your skirts, pretend it's a horse!"
"I don't know how to ride a horse!" Molly knew something of bicycles, so as soon as she was on the seat, her feet on the pedals, she started moving, unfortunately she wasn't quite used to balancing in such a fashion. She wobbled this way and that before toppling over. Mary laughed, hurrying to help her out from under the machine.
"Practice makes perfect, and you got farther than I did my first time on it. It's a lovely machine, I'll come over next week and help you learn."
"Miss Hooper," Molly looked to the back door where the maid was standing. "Mister Holmes is here to see you,"
"Oh!" Mary raised her eyebrows, looking from Molly to the doorway. "I'll sneak out the back,"
"Oh no, please, stay,"
"Nonsense, if Sherlock knows I'm here, it'll put him off, he's terrible with an audience, I'll slip away this time, but send me a note later, and let me know how everything goes!" Mary hopped onto the bicycle with no trouble at all, riding down the back path and through the open gate.
Sherlock had never come to the house before, so Molly was quite nervous. She smoothed her shirtwaist down, straightening her skirts before heading inside. Her father was already speaking with Sherlock, animatedly describing his plants. Sherlock seemed to be listening politely. If he had any interest in botany, Molly had no idea, but he seemed to humor the elderly gentleman.
"Father, I don't know if Mister Holmes is interested in your plants," Molly said.
"On the contrary," Sherlock said as both men turned to her. "I am interested in botany, particularly the poisonous variety."
"I can't say as I keep many dangerous plants, unless you count the little flytrap I bought, but there is something to be said for the study of lethal plants, perhaps I should see what there is in that, eh, Molly dear?" Mister Hooper chortled, pushing his glasses up further along his nose. "Well never mind that, come and see what Mister Holmes has brought for us, my girl." Sherlock stooped and picked up a large, lumpy parcel.
"What on earth is it?"
"Is there a place to set it up?" he asked, and Molly nodded, gesturing for him to follow through to the drawing room. Mr. Hooper rang for tea to be brought in.
"Have Mrs. Kelly cut some sandwiches," he said to the maid, low. "And let her know there may be a guest for dinner." The maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried off to her duty as Hooper followed the sound of his daughter's voice and Mister Holmes' low baritone answering her.
In the drawing room, Molly and Sherlock stood near each other, the parcel had been unwrapped, and Molly's eyes were shining.
"Look father, look a gramophone!"
"Hm!" was all Hooper said, though his eyebrows lifted considerably, and he smiled. "What's it for?"
"Music, speeches, anything," Molly said while Sherlock cranked up the machine.
"I've brought something to play," Sherlock added, and removed a record from its protective sleeve.
"Oh, a little concert eh?" Hooper sat with a grunt, leaning forward with interest as Molly moved her skirts out of the way, perching herself on the nearest chair. Sherlock showed her how to place the record on the machine and set the needle just so. In a moment, a violin began to play. It was a piece Molly didn't recognize, but she was so struck by the liveliness, the beautiful sound coming from the machine that she couldn't' look anywhere but the machine.
Molly had never heard something so lovely in all her life. She finally tore her eyes away from the horn of the machine to her father, who had tears in his eyes.
"What a lovely thing," he murmured. Sherlock, who had been watching Miss Hooper's reaction, and was so taken by the glittering shine in her eyes and the blush in her cheeks at the passion of the violinist suddenly remembered they were not alone.
"Who was that playing Mister Holmes?" Molly pleaded. "Oh it was lovely! Wasn't it? May we listen to it again?"
"If you like," Sherlock murmured, pleased. Molly noticed the very tips of the consulting detective's ears were red, and she suddenly recalled that he played the violin.
"Was…was that you playing?" she asked. He turned, startled, while Hooper crowed and applauded, not even bothering to wait for Sherlock to respond.
"It was," Sherlock admitted. "It is a piece I wrote, I compose…helps me think."
"Was it new? Is there a name for it?"
"There is a name," Sherlock bent over the machine, setting the needle again. Before Molly could ask him again what the name of the piece was, the record began again. They listened quietly, Hooper humming along to the chorus of the piece until its completion. "There is an appalling lack of recorded music, and while my playing is not opera, I hoped you would be pleased with it," Sherlock said, when the needle finished its course around the record. He stayed for tea, but declined dinner, though he did follow Hooper through to his study, wanting to look at the plants Molly's father had amassed.
"I myself am fascinated by all things growing," the elderly man chuckled. "I quite enjoy watching things change slowly, growing," Sherlock admired the flytrap that Hooper kept on his desk, inquiring as to if it would not grow larger, in a more spacious pot.
"I don't believe so, this one is just a small one, they're hard to transplant you see, quite rare, this particular one,"
"And what of your daughter?" Hooper looked up, surprised and somewhat confused.
"What's that?"
"If…" Sherlock stopped then, choosing his words carefully. "If she were to…that is she is very brilliant, she is important to a very large case that I am working on, if she were to come along with me…on my walks for evidence…a larger 'pot' shall we say, she would continue her education, and…er…grow…as it were. Her mind, not…obviously, she's full grown as an adult."
"Yes and pretty too," Hooper added with a chuckle. "I expect you're asking me permission if my grown daughter may accompany you on a rather dangerous case." Sherlock nodded. "Very dangerous indeed, eh?" Another nod. "Probably putting her life in danger, as well as yours." Sherlock said nothing. "Mister Holmes, there is something you should know about my daughter," he seated himself with a grunt, gesturing to the chair across the desk. Sherlock sat, waiting for the old man to continue: "She's an adult, past the age of twenty-one, and while the world seems to think she still needs my permission, I happen to think the opposite. I'm of the opinion that any woman who puts up with several years of higher education in a predominantly male field and succeeds doesn't need the permission of a gentleman to do as she likes, so long as she is, ultimately, kept safe."
Sherlock blinked, taking in what Mr. Hooper had said. Before he could thank him, Hooper drew breath again: "And while we are on the subject of permission, you have my blessing, whenever the time comes." Now Sherlock frowned. Hooper only nodded. "It's too soon, of course, but I've done my own hunting, Mister Holmes. Do you know what I've learned about you?" he didn't give him time to answer. "I've learned you're a decent sort of fellow, had a run of trouble, who hasn't? But you've a good heart, a bit mad, but then, a little madness is good for us now and then, isn't it?" Sherlock did not know what else to say, so he reached across the desk, shaking Mr. Hooper's hand.
"I can say, in all honesty Mr. Hooper, that it will be dangerous," Sherlock said, still holding onto the gentleman's hand. "But I will do everything in my power to keep her safe." Hooper nodded, quite solemn, though his eyes twinkled.
"Then there is nothing more to say between us."
Molly saw Sherlock to the door, Hooper was within earshot, and so she did not feel so uncomfortable, being alone in the foyer with Sherlock. His hand lingered by hers, and he looked suddenly shy.
"If you like, there is a case I should like to take you on, while the Ripper case is on hold."
"It could start up again any day now," she said.
"It could, but in the meantime I must keep busy, and Watson is often busy now with patients and his wife. I also should like your assistance again at my laboratory at Baker Street. You have a head for chemistry and solvents."
"If I could be of any help," she murmured at last, quite pleased. "If you think I'm needed, then I shall be glad to accompany you."
"Dear Miss Hooper, you are always needed." She flushed then, glancing at the doorway to the drawing room, the firelight flickering on the far wall. "Your father gave me permission tonight," he said quietly. She turned back to him, surprised.
"For what?" she asked, barely above a whisper. Sherlock bent, gently pressing her cheek. Eyes wide, she stared back at the consulting detective. He placed his hat on his head, touching the brim. "I shall come for you tomorrow at Barts, everything will be arranged for you to take a half-day."
"How?"
"Mycroft," was all he said. He called goodnight, and she waited until he was in a cab and well on his way before shutting the door and locking it.
Next day, St. Barts Mortuary
"Anything interesting?" Sherlock asked upon arrival. He came around the body, brushing her cheek with the gentlest of kisses, and then admired the blush that filled her cheeks as she smiled back at him, unable to do anything about it as her hands were occupied in closing up a corpse.
"No, two heart failures, and one failed kidney," she said.
"No suicides?"
"Afraid not," Molly was used to Holmes' odd questions. "And before you ask," she said, just as he opened his mouth again. "No murders and nothing to do with Jack the Ripper."
"Then if there is nothing interesting for me to look at, I shall do what Mary Watson asked and deliver this to you," he removed from his pocket an envelope. "It's in three weeks time, plenty of time for you to find a suitable gown." Seeing he expected her to open it then, she finished sewing up the body, snipped the thread and tugged off her gloves. Taking the invitation from his outstretched hand, she opened it and quickly scanned its contents.
"I don't know this person," she said, looking back to the consulting detective. "Besides, this says it's for you."
"I know them," he clarified. "And it says I may bring a guest. You have not attended any balls yet, and I am loath to attend this on my own, especially as a third-wheel to the Watson's, dearly as I appreciate their friendship."
"Mister Holmes, if we appear at this ball together, people will make the assumption we are courting." They had only just agreed to begin courting, Molly was unsure if he would wish for so many to know so soon.
"I expect so," he said, nudging at a bit of unseen grit with the toe of his shoe. Finally he looked up to meet her gaze. "If…it is acceptable to you, I should have no trouble in their assuming anything of the kind about us…I…should even go so far as to say I would welcome it." Molly Hooper blushed, smiled, and nodded. Sherlock glanced at the corpse still on the table. "Are you finished with him?"
"Yes, paperwork just has to be filed, and he needs to be put back in his box, but after that, I'm all yours…er- not…that is…I am free to assist you." Sherlock smirked, amused at her so suddenly flustered.
Molly was glad to spend the day with Sherlock, glad that he found her interesting enough to court (good heavens!) and that he thought her helpful on his work of the day. This particular day he was investigating a man who had disappeared from a train, and no one knew what exactly happened to him. It turned out to be a hoax, and Sherlock was left quite upset and bored of the whole matter. Molly had seen him upset before; in fact she was quite used to it now, though she was not so used to his shouting. He apologized after, upset he'd disturbed her. The Watson's had been invited to dinner, and Sherlock extended the invitation to Molly and offered to send a carriage for her father. Molly declined, and so Sherlock insisted on seeing her home.
"May I ask you something?"
"You will anyway," she smiled up at him, teasing.
"Do I make you uncomfortable?" he asked. She frowned, unsure of what he meant. "I mean, am I pursuing you to no end?" she looked so astonished that he sat back, staring straight ahead out of the carriage. "You…do not seem eager about our courtship…you questioned whether I wanted other people to know of us so soon…and…you always seem surprised when I press your hand or cheek."
"Well…" she turned red again. "I- Sherlock you must know there's a great difference in us!" He looked confusedly at her.
"No?"
"Class alone," she said. "And…well…I have been described as very plain and rather little, I'm not often noticed," she shrugged. "You, on the other hand, are very noticeable; you're someone who matters a great deal to people,"
"You matter," he insisted.
"I've never mattered to anyone before but my father, and it's quite different when it's someone related to you," she excused. "If I seem surprised when you…romance me…it is because it is still so new. We have known each other scarcely four weeks and you've made romantic overtures, well…as romantic as you can make them, asked my father's permission, and taken me on your cases." He was silent for a moment.
"Too fast?" She slipped her hand in his.
"Give me time to adjust to someone showing so much affection to me. I shouldn't like to be looked at as indecent. I should like to savor this time together. I want to know you, Sherlock Holmes, inside and out as well as you knew me when you first deduced me."
"I don't know everything about you," he sniffed. "I should rather you tell me something I don't know." The carraige came to a stop, and they saw they had arrived at her home. Under the cover of the cab, she leaned forward, tenderly pressing his cheek.
"I think if you continue as you are…there is a very good chance I shall be in love with you," she said, and stepped down from the cab, hurrying up the steps and inside. Sherlock touched his cheek, the feeling of Molly's warm mouth pressed against his cheek was gone, but the memory of it…oh…how very sweet!
"Address, sir?" Suddenly realizing the driver had asked him twice now for a direction, Sherlock called up his home address, settling back against the seat. Her reaction brought him such joy, such peace of mind that he did not see the rest of London passing by the carriage as he made his way home. An underlying fear of 'what if' whispered in the back of his mind, what if she grew bored with him, or decided she did not fancy a consulting detective after all. What then? What if she sought her happiness elsewhere? The selfish part of him declared that she should only love him and no one else, but the rational part knew, when it came to Molly Hooper, if her happiness was sought in the arms of another man, Sherlock would step aside, only for her sake. The carraige came to a stop, and as Sherlock paid the man and stepped down, he came to a startling realization:
He no longer admired Molly Hooper.
He loved her.
Ladies' Dress Shop, London
"I think you ought to get something French," Mary said, setting aside her muff and purse. "These balls are terribly big to-dos, you'll want to look smart, especially on Sherlock's arm. Clothes make the man, just think what they'll do for a woman."
"Empty her pocket book?" Molly quipped dryly. Mary knew what she was about, and having flipped through the booklet of fashion plates, motioned one of the sales girls over.
"We would like to see this one," she nodded to Molly at her side. "She'll be measured as well, so you can make the needed adjustments. The woman nodded and returned in a little while with a pale green silk satin gown, silver threads and sequins embroidered over it. The train of the gown was gold silk brocade with a leaf pattern. It was so deliciously modern and French and elegant that Molly couldn't speak for a moment. She looked at Mary, wordlessly, eyes wide, and Mary nudged her. "Go on then, they'll pin it to you and see how it fits."
The actual process of trying on the gown was more work than Molly cared to admit, and was glad she did not have to tend her wardrobe so fastidiously as some women did. The dress was fitted to her, pinned and gathered in places it gapped until it looked right. Stepping out into the private show room, Molly waited as a seamstress hurried around her, arranging the train and fixing the sleeves.
"Well? Will I do?"
"Oh…" Mary sighed. Standing, she smiled, quite happily at Molly. "If you don't say yes and buy it this instant I'll make you ride my bicycle home every day from Barts for an entire week!" Molly turned to look at herself in the mirror. She did admit to herself she felt beautiful, that she could be worthy of a man like Sherlock Holmes in such a gown.
"Do you think he'll like it?"
"Dear girl," Mary smiled. "I'm afraid he will be in danger of falling even more in love with you, if that is at all possible." She waited for the seamstress to depart before lowering her voice. "And I am afraid, Molly, it will mean he'll want to kiss you. Quite a bit too." Molly flushed, laughing with Mary. It was with that in mind, that Molly Hooper decided to buy the gown. Heaven help her, but if Sherlock Holmes dared kiss her on the mouth, she just might kiss him back.